


Sleep Awake

by NotYourHoney



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Slow Burn, but theyre dumb and think it is, if u want a part 2 let me know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 11:52:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19723123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotYourHoney/pseuds/NotYourHoney
Summary: Crowley never processed the shock of thinking that he had lost Aziraphale. The night before the Switch, it all comes rushing back to him.





	Sleep Awake

**Author's Note:**

> This is safe for work and is mostly pining. If you want to see more of Crowley being vulnerable drop them kudos
> 
> Also, my tumblr is notyour--honey. Shoot me a prompt or come talk about good omens with me!

Serenity hung in the night, quiet and still around Aziraphale and Crowley, as Crowley fumbled with the lock to his home. The sun hadn’t yet started its ascent and an owl still watched them from a tree. Nothing stirred but the chirping of insects and Crowley’s mumbled insults to his keys. 

The door clicked open and Crowley shoved it open with a huff, grumbling about the audacity of modern door unlocking mechanisms. 

Aziraphale followed him inside, and they hiked up the stairs to Crowley’s flat. The door of apartment six of the sixth floor swung open with a flick of Crowley’s hand. The sight of the room where Crowley kept his favourite hobby greeted Aziraphale.

“Oh, what lovely plants you have!” 

The door clicked behind Crowley. He glanced at the forest of luscious houseplants and cleared his head. He walked ahead of Aziraphale, swinging his arms up to a shrug. 

“They’re alright. Come on, then.” 

Aziraphale had never visited Crowley’s flat. It always made more sense in the past to meet at a rendezvous, or in the bookshop. But after the events of the day, hiding from their respective head offices felt silly. 

Save for the expensive art pieces, too dark to discern the details of, not much filled the flat. Dark concrete dominated the floors and walls, except for a wall lined with floor to ceiling windows. Besides the room where the houseplants lived, no light touched the flat. Crowley’s shoes clacked and echoed down the halls. Aziraphale followed him past an untouched kitchenette and many closed doors, and into a pristine bedroom.

Crowley’s home didn’t appear lived in, because it wasn’t. He simply returned to it at the end of the day and left in the morning.

“Keep it tidy, don’t you.” Aziraphale’s tone lightened the dark room. He didn’t let it show how uncomfortable he felt in an open empty space. He wrung his hands and ached for his bookshop.

Crowley flicked a lightswitch and a single miniature chandelier illuminated the room and cast shadows on the stark walls. “Never had much time for decorating. Sit on the bed with me.” 

Aziraphale sat. The mattress dipped beside him. He kept both hands on his knees. The events of the day jumbled in his brain like leftovers soup.

“Crowley-”

“Hmm.” He’d tossed his sunglasses to the floor and laid on the bed, and stared at Aziraphale, his gaze golden and still. If he felt anything at all, it didn’t show on his face.

“I’m worried.” Aziraphale met his gaze. A heavy crease formed between his brows. Fear, dark and shaking, contorted his face. “I’m worried about what they might do to me and… to you.”

Crowley frowned. “They’re not going to do anything, Angel. Nothing permanent. We’ve got a plan.”

“But what if it doesn’t work?” Aziraphale’s shoulders drew up towards his ears. He clenched his knees and tapped an anxious foot on the floor. Crowley sat up with a frown.

“Well… That’s just…”

Aziraphale continued. “What if we do the switch, and they still exile us? What if they realize our true forms? What if-”

“You mustn't worry about that, Aziraphale.” He placed a hand on the angel’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I mean, Hastur was stupid enough to not catch on to us for six thousand years. And Michael really bought that ineffable thing. I don’t think they’ll realize at all until we’re both long gone.”

Aziraphale cracked a tiny smile. And Crowley, being not a very good demon, smiled back. He paused. “Would you like to sleep?”

“Angels don’t need to sleep.”

“Angels don’t need to eat, either. But it feels good, so you do it.” Crowley laid back onto the bed and thumped the spot next to him. His heart pounded in his ears, but he just smiled a little sharper, with more teeth. “It’s nice.” 

Aziraphale hesitated, lost in thought and worrying his lip.

Crowley frowned turned his head away from Aziraphale, staring instead at the grey ceiling. He sunk a little further into the mattress. He let Aziraphale worry for a moment. Then he murmured something under his breath. Aziraphale glanced up and leaned closer. 

“I didn’t hear you, my dear.” 

Crowley’s Adam's apple bobbed in a heavy swallow and he peered back at Aziraphale. There was a sort of defeat in his face, in the lidding of his eyes. He sucked in a breath. The blacks of his eyes became paper thin slits. 

“I thought you were gone forever.”

A pause. An exhale. Then, softer:

“I would like if you slept next to me.”

“Tell me what’s on your mind, Crowley.” He laid down next to Crowley, his hands laced on top of his chest. Crowley glared up at the ceiling. 

“It… Forget I said anything, actually. No, it’s nothing. Nothing at all.” 

“Well clearly not nothing.”

“Nothing for you to worry about.”

“But I do worry.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m a demon, I don’t need to be worried about.” 

A silence hung in the air, stale and heavy. Aziraphale inched a hand over to Crowley’s hand and held it. A cold, serpentine hand squeezed his hand back. “You mean the world to me, Crowley. Whatever it is, it won’t change what I think of you at all.” 

Throughout history, Aziraphale learned to become very good at telling when something struck a chord with Crowley. He would draw back into himself. He wouldn’t speak. And he would sleep. Sometimes for years and years at a time. Aziraphale didn’t see him at all for the first half of the twentieth century after their argument. 

Aziraphale learned through trial and error and six thousand years how to speak to Crowley when he fell into this mindset. 

When he didn’t respond, Aziraphale continued. “You aren’t just a demon. A demon wouldn’t have fought for the greater good. A demon wouldn’t have hesitated to kill the Antichrist child. You fought for what was right because you’re more than that. You’re intrinsically you, dear, and that is a wonderful thing to be.” 

Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley. He’d turned to gaze at Aziraphale while he spoke. Aziraphale felt heat rise to his cheeks and ears. He could feel Crowley’s soft breath against his lips. He didn’t move a muscle. 

“I thought I lost you. Y’know, when you… And I didn’t know at all what to do. It was like Falling all over again. But I couldn’t go to hell this time, and She doesn’t listen anymore. I wanted to… clip my wings, I wanted to discorporate.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale’s throat felt tight and scratchy. He could feel the puff of breath from every word against his lips. “Didn’t even have the… holy water anymore.” 

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he said. “I do need you here, you know.” Crowley rarely spoke of falling. Aziraphale knew better than to ask. 

Exhaustion betrayed Crowley’s poker face in the heaviness under his eyes and the paleness of his cheeks. Aziraphale smiled, but the pounding of his heart drummed in his ears, and then Crowley smiled in that way that started on one side of his mouth, and Aziraphale counted his breaths to keep them even. 

“Me too, Angel.” Crowley held his gaze and brought Aziraphale’s hand to his mouth. He kissed Aziraphale’s knuckles. 

The air became electric, and his hand felt hot, his skin felt hot, and he wanted to say something, the words trapped in his mouth, but then Crowley lowered his hand and the moment ended.  
Aziraphale felt an ache deep in his chest, the same ache he felt every day for hundreds of years, festering and growing.

The same ache spread to Crowley. Aziraphale knew nothing of this.

And so the two of them lay side by side, shoulder to shoulder, aching and just breathing. Neither one of them dared to speak, to a point where the quiet rang in Aziraphale’s ears. Aziraphale didn’t notice Crowley’s eyes close and his breathing slow. His fingers grew slack. He released Aziraphale’s hand.

“Goodnight, Aziraphale.”

“Goodnight, my dear.”

Outside, the moon beamed through a slit in the curtain onto Crowley’s face as he began to snore. 

An hour or so later, when the morning birds began to sing, he brought Crowley’s hand to his lips and then listened to the faint rhythm of his pulse.


End file.
